Saturday, 26 April 2008

Hello Stranger

Clapham Common - April 6th

And less than three weeks later, on the 26th....

Summer. It was lovely to see you today, after such a long time apart from one another.

Let the good times roll.

Monday, 21 April 2008

The Deserter - Epilogue

Phone turned up this morning with an exceptionally coy look on his face. But otherwise in good health. Wallet, Keys, Jacket and I were all very happy to see him back.

And so, me and my vital possessions were reunited.

Saturday, 19 April 2008

The Deserter

I've always been amazed at the way my belongings manage to stick with me. Particularly after a long night. If you could see footage of me returning home, you would see me climb out of a taxi and hold the door open as my wallet, jacket, keys and mobile phone jump out, thank the driver (my belongings are very polite) and head for my front door like one big, happy family.

When I wake the next morning, I will always find them lying next to me, tittering away to each other about what a great night they had.

Unfortunately last night there was a deserter.

When I awoke this morning, Wallet was flat out on the floor, still sleeping; Keys were in bed next to me, one arm shielding their eyes from the morning light; Jacket was curled up at the end of the bed like a dutiful puppy. Phone, however, was nowhere in sight. In fact, it seems that Phone didn't come home at all last night.

To say I am disappointed in Phone is an understatement. But as the phrase goes: 'If you love something set it free. If it comes back to you, then it is yours. If not, then it is now some other lucky person's'.

In a way I hope Phone left on its own accord. For new and exciting adventures.

Thanks for the good times Phone. We'll all miss you.

Sunday, 13 April 2008


Lately I have been struggling with the concept of 'home'.

Home for me now is here. 11 Langham House. It is the eighteenth front door of my life.

I have paid income tax to four different governments; put money into a pension scheme in Australia and Japan, but never New Zealand.

I lived in Wellington for six of the last ten years. But I am not 'from there'. I was born in Pahiatua, but never lived there.

When I think of home, I don't think of New Zealand. I'm not proud of that, but that is just how my head works. I don't think of Huffer hoodies, L&P, roast lamb or 'Country Calendar'.

While I may struggle to call New Zealand home, there is a small piece of space within that country which is very much a home to me.

Down Evans Road, take the first right - opposite the (now) free-range egg farm. Head down the gravel drive, past mum's vege garden filled with fountains of silver beet, and through the garage door. Up the hall, into the lounge and out onto the deck. The deck that my dad built with his own hands.

If you sit on the edge of that deck, leaning on a pole, you get a view over the rolling backyard Dad used to mow in different patterns every Saturday. Each time replicating a famous sports ground. 'We'll do Eden Park today' he would say.

Twenty years ago that deck you sit on was uniform in colour, with all the nails diligently keeping their heads down and backs straight. Now it tells the stories of a thousand days of sunshine; the scars of pet dogs, cats, chickens and children. If you listen very closely, it will tell you stories of the Al fresco dinners, post-wedding lunches, ruby wedding anniversary parties. Or maybe you will hear about that magical time we all sat around, playing the guitar, singing, and just 'being' in the warmth of the afternoon.

Yes, this rectangular piece of 'dad-made' nature is where I call home.

Tuesday, 8 April 2008

It's Just Crushing

This story of a small town girl living in big city London is a well-rounded tale in most respects. There is drama; comedy; laughter and tears. It is human-interest and documentary all rolled into one. But there is definitely one element missing. The 'love interest'.

Cue 'Crush 2008'. Not since the fondly remembered 2006 crush of 'Dry Cleaning Guy' has my life seen this sort of fluttering of hearts.

I have a completely ridiculous, yet fabulous crush. You know the type. When someone with otherwise only a cameo role in your life, sets centre stage alight.

Crushes are crazy because you know that the person probably doesn't even know you are alive; yet they have the power to reduce you to the consistency of two day old packet custard.

It is like being 12 again, with that TV Hits poster of George Michael on your wall. Or like when I met my favourite Radio New Zealand presenter, Bryan Crump, when he needed change for the vending machine. And I had some. If only I could open my wallet. I lost all motor skills and the ability to speak in any language apart from some sort of Jabba the Hutt impression.

But back to the present. It is amazing how completely ridiculous things can come out of your mouth when you are being so careful trying to impress. And how can I possibly have pesto in my teeth when I can't even remember the last time I ate it. 'Sensible Emma' rolls her eyes, shields her face from the shame, muttering 'how embarrassing' under her breath. All the whilst 'Possessed by Crush Emma' giggles uncontrollably and says a stream of inappropriate things.

How can I be Audrey Hepburn with the 60 year old postman, then a female George Bush / David Brent rolled into one, so soon after?

Crushes are great when you know that they will never eventuate into anything complicated, and they simply serve the purpose of popping a couple of nice moments into your day. And that is exactly what Crush 2008 does. Just like the Dry Cleaning Guy did in 06. That was before the restraining order..

After all, every girl needs something to get her out of bed in the morning, right?

Sunday, 6 April 2008


Two days ago it was 17 degrees and I walked home from work wearing my sunglasses and a dress.

This is the sight I was greeted with when I woke this morning.

Complete with Sunday morning bed hair and an obvious late night carved into my face.

And Clapham Common.....

Later in the day, When the melt leaves only the snow men and women behind.